


hope in a human being.

by scrantonstrangler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, In which harry is a teacher, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, almost all my characters are queer so expect that, because i'm drarry trash., expect angst, i'm sorry in advance, like... really slow folks..., please forgive all my future trespasses, post war of hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-09-02 08:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20272726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrantonstrangler/pseuds/scrantonstrangler
Summary: Harry Potter has left the Ministry. Seeking solace in the nostalgic halls of Hogwarts, he gets more than he bargained for when a familiar face joins the ranks of Hogwarts professors.





	1. naïveté, or watching a dewdrop fall from a leaf.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Harry Potter fanfiction I've ever published, despite writing an embarrassing number of them. So please, go easy on me, as this is my fandom to end all fandoms. Comments & suggestions are always greatly appreciated and constructive criticism is something I adore. I have no beta-reader so please do forgive any mistakes I make as I will be beating myself up for them when I come across them. 
> 
> Now, some disclaimers: I do not own & am in no way affiliated with Harry Potter or its creators. This fic exists in time limbo, by which I mean I am not assigning it a specific "year," and thus I will be taking some liberties with the characters involved, etc. Wizards also live to be an obscene old age so one can only assume time means little to them anyway. I do want to say explicitly, so that there is no room for argument: I portray Harry as half Black (the Potters being a Black family) and Hermione is Black as well. I want to do my best to have a diverse array of characters in my stories, so I'm taking some liberties there, as well as including a number of POC original characters whom I hope you love as much as I do. Also a lot of my characters are queer. If you have a problem with any of this, kindly hop off my fanfiction and find one that better suits your... wishes. 
> 
> This is an extremely slow burn. I know I rated it as explicit but that will not come for many chapters. I appreciate your patience. I will add archive warnings as they arise - and there will likely be many, including major character death (sorry) and violence.
> 
> Sorry for the novel. Onto the story. Please enjoy, but enjoy gently, as I am, at times, a delicate flower. A delicate, man-eating flower.

The sunset shatters across the placid surface of the lake, painting the dark water with brilliant splashes of pink, purple, orange. There’s a comforting sort of loneliness in sitting on the shore. Gentle waves lap against the sand, just missing the rubber of scuffed trainers; a tentacle breaks the glassy expanse of water to wrap almost lovingly around Harry Potter’s calf. He smiles. Taps a finger against the slick, rubbery thing that’s squeezing him rhythmically. The giant squid must be lonely too, he reckons, living by itself in the vast, dark lake—but perhaps they’re both onto something, breathing in their solitude, letting themselves simply exist, without expectation, without some greater purpose they must fulfill. 

Or perhaps he’s projecting the things he cannot allow himself to feel onto a squid. As though to punctuate his madness, the tentacle gives him an even sharper squeeze which prompts a sigh from the empty bellows of his chest. How washed-up must one be to find camaraderie in a fucking squid?

“Thought I might find you here.” It’s a familiar voice, surprising, but not unwelcome. Harry turns with an unabashed smile on his lips. She’s cast into a crimson glow that reminds him of why he’d fallen in love with her, with that smart smirk playing around her lips, so unchanged from their days in school despite how different she’s become. When she offers a helping hand he takes it—there is no shame between them, and it’s something he still loves about her. “Still brooding after all these years?”

“I don’t brood,” he says, offended, even as he pulls her into a tight hug. “What’re you doing here, Gin? Shouldn’t you be practicing? I hear you’re a shoo-in for the Cup, and I’ll be damned if I lose all my Galleons because one of the Harpies can’t be arsed to show up for practice.”

She swats him on the arm. He supposes he should feel lucky that she hasn’t chosen to hex him.

“I wanted to see you and Neville before term begins.” Her hands rest, authoritative, on her hips. “I’ve got the night off, Potter. Your precious Galleons are safe.” Teasing, always teasing, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. But now her expression shifts, concern warming in those amber eyes; she knows him too well, no matter the distance between them. “How bad is it today? Out of ten.”

“Six.” He knows it’s futile to attempt lying. Besides, Ginny knows better than to pity him, and she simply nods, thoughtful. Harry changes the subject. “How’s Luna?”

“She’s… Luna.” Her pale cheeks pink slightly as she absently touches the crescent moon pendant which hangs around her neck. Harry grins again. Somewhere under that now-muscular exterior lies the girl who blushed at him on the train platform. “She’s still off gallivanting with that Scamander bloke. I’d be jealous if I didn’t know better.”

“Not like you to be jealous anyway,” he replies smoothly, smile growing softer even as he shakes the tentacle off his leg. Silent, sleek, it withdraws into the lake, only the faintest ripple remaining as evidence of its emergence. For some reason, Harry’s heart gives a painful lurch, as though something has been lost to him that he cannot recognize. “I think Nev’s in one of the greenhouses. Go find him. I’ll catch up.”

That same concerned look still wrinkles her brow, but she allows Harry his pride, just this once. As she turns to walk up the hill, he gives his wand a perfunctory wave. With his weight resting on the newly-conjured cane, he limps behind her, only giving himself an instant of cruel jealousy before breathing in the refreshing August air. Long grass flickers and waves beneath the westward breeze. The twilight is beautiful, and he focuses on that, on the budding moon and the faint smattering of stars just beginning their ascent, on the light chill now embracing him. Not on the cane. Not on his leg. Not on the haze of memories threatening to cloud his vision. Ginny awaits him, and so does Neville, and he will not allow himself this time to grieve a life that was never meant to belong to him.

When he finally does reach the occupied greenhouse, laughter echoes through the rows of plants, a pot of tea is waiting and steaming, and his friends welcome him with open smiles which help banish the cold edge of the encroaching night.

***************************

Harry likes to think he’s cultivated a calming atmosphere. He surveys his classroom with a discerning eye: would he have felt comfortable here, learning spells to protect himself and his friends? Candles sit on every spare ledge, endlessly burning with the help of a few clever tricks, lending their warm and flickering glow to a room bedecked with wide windows and gentle sunlight. A cupboard rattles in the corner. Sneakoscopes perch on their edges along the wide shelves beside objects which whir and spin unthreateningly, while enchanted keys flit, feathers rustling, near the ceiling. He’d thought, perhaps, to add a grindylow to his collection, but Luna had regarded him with some measure of bewildered astonishment when he’d mentioned it, so he’d chosen instead to include portraits of dangerous creatures to the mix. 

None of his students have complained so far. Not about the classroom, at least.

The click of the door opening echoes, cavernous, pulling Harry from his moment of introspection. But Neville’s grinning face is always a welcome sight, and Harry can’t help but reciprocate, smiling widely as he watches those long legs carry Neville down the stairs. Longbottom towers over him, his strides smooth and clean, and Harry immediately banishes any resentment that leaks through his enthusiasm to see his friend.

“Did you hear?” Anxiety thrills through Neville’s gentle voice, gilded with excitement, and he places his hands on Harry’s desk as though imparting some vital news. Harry’s only response is an uptick of his brows. “Flitwick’s retiring. Health reasons. Rumour is that McGonagall has already chosen his replacement.”

Curiosity ignites in Harry’s chest as he summons his teapot from his chambers. Neville takes a seat easily, his feet bouncing with anticipation and the energy of imparting a secret. Another smile, this one a bit gentler, ticks at Harry’s lips; the war has left its marks on all of them, but even through his own metamorphosis, Neville has somehow managed to retain that sweet spark he’s always had, that same genuine kindness Harry had seen in the eyes of a red-faced boy searching for a lost toad. A hand moves to touch his scar; it is no longer the two good legs that Harry envies, and yet he cannot bring himself to feel any true animosity toward one of the best people he’s ever had the good luck to know.

He pours the tea as Neville pontificates.

“Who d’you think she’s chosen? I know Padma’s had her eye on Hogwarts for a while since she quit the Prophet.” He accepts his tea from Harry and stirs an alarming amount of sugar into the steaming cup, dark eyes alight with an unsolved mystery. “Or—could it be Ron? At the Weasleys’ that night, he was talking—“

“It’s not Ron.” Harry’s flat voice seems sufficient to snap Neville’s mouth shut and colour his cheeks, and immediately Harry wants to slam his head against his desk. “I’m—I only meant that Ron’s too good an Auror to quit now. He’s steady on track to become Head Auror, and I think he was talking about coming to Hogwarts to make me feel better. Plus at the Ministry, he’s closer to Hermione, and we all know how sickening they are even after all these years.”

The kinder tone has Neville smiling again and Harry counts it as a success, despite his bruised ego, despite the ember of bitterness slowly burning a hole in his gut.

“What about that Dippet bloke? Your partner. You said yourself he’s a genius with a wand and he’s left the Ministry, and could be McGonagall knows his family, since he’s Armando’s great-great-great grandson, or nephew, or something.” Harry splutters but keeps his face buried in his teacup, hoping Neville doesn’t see the way his own cheeks darken at the mention of his former partner. Clearly, however, Neville’s so consumed by thoughts of their future coworker that the boggart could hop out of its cupboard and he wouldn’t notice. “Or there’s the Prentiss twins, they both wanted to be professors when we were in school…”

Neville continues with his suggestions, and Harry interjects every few minutes with his own ideas, until the room darkens as the sky outside fades to twilight.

***************************

It’s always strange to eat in the Great Hall before the term begins. Conversations are quiet; the long House tables are empty, extravagant meals are replaced by hearty stews with crusty bread, and mead flows freely, until the small gathering of professors are red-faced and laughing. The topic of discussion rests heavily on the potential new professor. It seems McGonagall has been tight-lipped, which irritates Slughorn more than anyone else, as he believes himself and “Minnie” to be rather close. This sends Harry and Neville into a fit of quiet snickering, which they hide well, but Hagrid has a harder time concealing his loud guffaws. Harry finds himself patting the half-giant’s back until he calms down, but the laughter has done its job offending Slughorn further, who slumps off, muttering under his breath. 

As supper begins winding down and the mead is exchanged for tea, an air of mild melancholy overtakes them. The students are likely feeling the same way as they pack their trunks and collapse into bed—their freedom is ending, and now they will have responsibilities, timetables, rules. All things which children abhor and, as Harry now knows, adults meet with similar derision.

The firm, clipped sound of McGonagall’s voice pulls the Hogwarts staff out of their collective reverie. With bated breath, they attend her every word, listening as it grows closer. 

“I’ve reviewed your curriculum and I’m very pleased, as I think Filius would be. I must say your willingness to step in at such a late hour is commendable.” Harry smiles once again; even as she attempts to thank the still-mysterious newcomer, McGonagall sounds fierce, as though she is begrudging even her gratefulness. “Tomorrow your first class will be with the first-year Hufflepuff and Slytherin students. I will have a timetable for you as quickly as I can.”

Excitement is palpable in the air, electric under the enchanted ceiling which crackles with white-purple lightning. Then the pair walks by.

The figure is tall. Slim. Fair. An expensive-looking black suit fits snugly against the lean body which lopes gracefully beside McGonagall. Pale hair pulled back at the nape of a paler neck. A flash of a haughty smile. Just a glimpse of the right side of the newcomer’s face has Harry’s heart pounding in some strange tattoo of anger-inducing familiarity. Neville’s voice echoes with the same righteous indignation which bubbles like firewhisky in Harry’s chest.

“McGonagall hired _Draco Malfoy_?”


	2. discovery, or a sunset purpling a sky.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which harry is forced to accept his new coworker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regard the notes from the first chapter. also, sorry it took me so long. life, work, everything that entails. if anyone's even reading. as always, feedback is appreciated.

“State your name.” The gargoyle sounds bored, tired, as though guarding the spiral staircase has become more a chore than a duty. 

“Harry Potter.” Harry is aware that his own voice is cold and prickly and tense as though it is under some immense amount of strain. Spine rigid, he waits for the message to be relayed to McGonagall, but try as he might, he cannot swallow down the anger that stains his vision red. Perhaps she knows what he’s come to say. Perhaps she won’t allow him entrance at all and he’ll be left to stew in his irritation, an angry student all over again. Surprisingly, however, the gargoyle springs to the side, its flat expression showing its utter disdain for Harry’s scowling demeanour as he moves to stride up the stairs.

While the Headmaster’s Office has remained structurally unchanged since the founding of the school, Harry suspects that the differences between each of the Hogwarts Headmasters have always been stark. Where Dumbledore’s sanctuary had been full of shining, enigmatic instruments and whirring gadgets, McGonagall’s is stark, meticulous. If anyone else sat at the large desk the office would seem cold. With Minerva McGonagall, however, the room has a strange sense of comfort—steaming teapots, scratching quills, well-worn books, blankets and scarves crocheting themselves in the corner. He can remember limping into the room soaked with rain. He'd nearly begging her to hire him, to give his wasted life some meaning, and he can distinctly remember the small smile on her pursed lips as she shoved a plate of fresh biscuits toward him and laid out the terms of his employment.

She regards him with the same calm amusement as he storms into the office now.

“**Malfoy**?” he spits, fists clenched, and a memory springs forward: those same fists destroying everything he could touch, here in this very office, a similar stoic gaze unaffected by his rage. Shame catches in his throat. Is he the same hotheaded young Gryffindor he’d been in school? As the wind suddenly drops from his sails, he sags into a chair, taking the biscuit she silently offers. “Professor. I don’t understand. How could you hire Malfoy?”

“As we have now been colleagues for some time, Harry, I would not be offended if you were to call me Minerva.” His anger quickly turns to bemusement; her use of his first name has never ceased to surprise him, but the idea of using hers is so foreign to him he had never even considered it. If her aim had been to shut him up for a moment, she’d certainly succeeded. “If I recall correctly, you and Mr Malfoy worked together for several years at the Ministry. Were the two of you at war even then?”

“We—he—I—” for a moment he collects his thoughts, embarrassment staining his face as he shoves the rest of the (admittedly delicious) biscuit into his mouth. “I was an Auror. He was an Unspeakable. We rarely saw each other, except when the smarmy git… sorry… showed up to take over a case I was working on.” 

“Time may change us all, and yet we all so rarely change.” This is a new voice, placid and familiar, and Harry’s eyes land upon Dumbledore’s portrait with an equal measure of reproach and sadness. “I seem to recall you sitting in my office warning me about Draco Malfoy many times, Harry. I did warn Minerva that you would not take kindly to her decisions surrounding Professor Flitwick’s replacement, but Mr Malfoy is the best choice for the job.”

All Harry can do is splutter indignantly. His mouth refuses to form a single coherent word.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” McGonagall interrupts, considering him with a knowing look that he distinctly dislikes. “But the school year does begin tomorrow, and as you can imagine, I have much to do to prepare. My decision regarding the Charms professor is final, I’m afraid, but if you don’t mind my saying so: perhaps if you take a moment to speak with Draco, you might find that you have more in common than you think.”

Her reasonable tone sends him over the edge. He stands, turns, lets the door slam behind him. As he storms down the hallway he can hear the gargoyle making snide remarks, but they are lost in the chaos of his thoughts.

***************************

_Rain._

_It splatters on his face, his glasses, and for a moment he’s fascinated by the way the drops loom ever larger before they inevitably splash against his skin. The night is humid but the rain is cool. A balm on his sweaty skin. A shock to his racing heart. Something is… wrong. He blinks and he feels the numbness spread from his toes up his ankle, his leg, and when he holds a hand up and it swims into view—red. A frown creases his face but his mind swims through the hazy darkness, thick and unsure, until it finally comes to him. _

_He’s dying. _

_It’s almost enough to make him laugh, even as he hears his partner’s voice screaming his name, even as an infuriatingly familiar face looms over him without its usual smirk painting pale lips with derision. The Boy Who Lived, Harry thinks, and now he does laugh._

The laughter dies on his lips as he heaves into consciousness, his leg aching, head throbbing with the fading sounds of screams and whispers. Dust motes hover, stagnant, in the beams of sunlight which filter through the long curtains. Sunrise has cast an orange glow into the morning air. Harry groans, rolling over, pressing his face into his pillow in some futile attempt to smother himself back to sleep. He can feel his heartbeat thumping frantically in his chest; he is no stranger to unpleasant dreams, but they never fail to leave him feeling helpless, terrified, as though he’s stuck in the past with all the demons contained there. 

“Harry.” This voice isn’t part of the dream. He scrambles from bed, shoving his glasses onto his face as he makes his way to the hearth. 

“It’s bloody early, Hermione,” he says crossly, stifling a yawn and peering down at the familiar face staring up at him from the embers. In true Hermione fashion, she smiles brightly back at him—suspiciously brightly, in fact, even more brightly than her delivering-bad-news smile. His eyes narrow. “What’s worth waking me up over? You know the students arrive tonight. I’ll need all the sleep I can get.”

“Oh, Harry, I just—I wanted to see how you’re doing. I know sometimes the school year can be stressful, and I had some ideas about lesson plans if you’re having trouble, or I’m happy to just hear whatever ideas you’ve come up with so far. Education is very important, after all.” Each word comes more and more quickly as though they’re fighting to make it out of her mouth, and Harry smiles with some bemusement until it dawns on him. Guilt. The smile looks guilty and the words are all guilty and even Hermione can see the exact moment when Harry Potter becomes angry.

“You knew!” It’s indignant, loud, a clear accusation even in his groggy voice. “You knew and you didn’t even tell me!”

“I couldn’t!” He can only see her face, but Harry’s sure she’s wringing her hands in worry, and a small, mean part of him is happy for it. She should feel guilty. “Harry, Professor McGonagall made me promise not to say anything, and to be fair, she made the smart decision, because we all know how antagonistic you two are toward each other, but you know I would have told you if I could.” 

“Yeah, well, good to know you and Professor McGonagall have agreed that I’m no more than a petulant child who’s not to be trusted.” It comes out a bit colder than he’d meant it and he regrets it instantly; the dreams always leave him in a nasty mood, and Hermione had chosen a bad day to wake him and place this new betrayal on his shoulders. He sags, exhausted, hands lifting to scrub through untidy hair. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve done nothing but prove your point, haven’t I?”

“Well,” she says primly, and he can tell she’s deciding whether or not to be hurt. “You **are** a bit petulant, but I know Draco’s done nothing to endear himself to you.” Not hurt, then, though of course she’ll get her scolding in. Harry has to stifle a smile at that. It’s like they’re in school again and she’s chiding him for not doing his potions assignments or for teasing a first-year. Perhaps he's still a child after all.

They speak a bit longer, making plans to have drinks in Hogsmeade at the end of the week. Just as they begin saying their goodbyes, Ron’s head appears in the hearth, distorted by glowing light.

“For the record, mate, I’m fully on your side here. Draco? Teaching kids? Terrible bloody idea, if you ask me. A Malfoy’s a Malfoy, and—“ 

Hermione clearly shoves him away, and her chastising voice fades into silence as they disappear, leaving Harry in a much better mood than when he’d awoken. Shaking his head, he rises, scrubbing a hand down the dark scruff on his face, leaving his dream behind as he sets about brushing his teeth.

Best to leave the past in the past.

***************************

The Great Hall is abuzz with chatter, a clear night sky looming above them as the last remnants of enchanted daylight fade to darkness. The Sorting had gone by in an instant—even the Sorting Hat seems to know the ceremony is more of a formality now, a way to divide students into manageable class sizes rather than pitting them against each other—and it had almost been possible for Harry to forget that there was a familiar presence at the table. He’d been avoiding Malfoy, only catching the barest glimpses of him in passing, over so quickly it seemed that their avoidance had been mutual. 

Until now, of course. Now, when the Headmistress rises from her seat and a hush descends over the students even as they tuck into their pudding.

“Welcome,” she says curtly, hands clasped in front of her, shrewd eyes scanning the room as though determined to memorise each face for future scolding. “Summer ends, and your life at Hogwarts begins. For those who are returning, welcome back; for the new faces, I am afraid that I must bore you with the rules of the castle, but rest assured that I shall let you resume your frivolities soon. The Forbidden Forest is exactly as its name suggests: forbidden. If you find yourself nearing the forest’s edge…”

As the feast’s speeches had ever done when he was a student, this one fades into the background as Harry watches, surveys, takes note. Every table is a mix of crimson, yellow, blue, green, all eyes fixed upon the head table as the commanding voice of Minerva McGonagall takes hold of them. 

“And finally, an introduction must be made. As most of you have undoubtedly heard, Professor Flitwick has taken ill and will be unable to teach for some time. This term, Charms will be taught by Draco Malfoy.” Her tone is blunt; she invites no argument, and Harry is sure that this is directed at the professors as much as the students. At once the Great Hall erupts in murmured conversation, a hush that evolves into a roar, growing in volume until Draco himself stands to address the crowd of students.

“I know I have rather large shoes to fill,” Malfoy says, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. This draws a smattering of laughter, though his own tone does not sound amused. “I can’t promise to fill them, but I can promise to try. I’m relying on all of you to help me.” 

Harry’s mouth has fallen open. For the first time since Malfoy arrived on Hogwarts grounds, he looks at him fully, and he knows he’s gaping but is unable to stop himself. The left half of Draco’s face is scarred by shifting red-purple-grey slashes which seem to swell and recede with his heartbeat. Tension is snapping, thick in the air, subsiding only when the newest addition to the school’s staff sits back down and the students erupt into new, excited conversation. 

Harry drinks. Firewhisky scorches his throat and brings heat to his cheeks and he thinks, ruefully, that perhaps Dumbledore was right.


	3. crashing, or not necessarily a meet-cute.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which harry and draco finally speak, though perhaps a bit icily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time around, I must thank my WONDERFUL betas Andrea and Brandon. Without them I wouldn't have finished this chapter coherently. They're so sweet and so encouraging and make me go back and fix my sometimes atrocious grammar issues. Thank you both so so much! Other notes: don't worry, the animosity will begin to cool down soon. I did warn that it's a slow burn, though.

“Very good,” Harry says with an impressive amount of enthusiasm, as his students stand behind widely varying versions of shield charms, their faces open and longing for approval. A few of them have some true potential. Their shields are upright and opaque, opponents dazed on the ground, in contrast to the more flimsy attempts which offer only a tickle to the students who approach them. “Keep practising. I know you’re not supposed to duel outside of class. That’s all I’ll comment on the matter. Well, that and the ten-inch parchment about the history of Protego and its various uses I’ll expect next week.”

The class dissipates with a low hiss of conversation, some choice curses toward the assignment smattered amongst the general gossip which tends to accompany the first day of the term. Second-years are amongst Harry’s favourites of the Hogwarts students; the novelty of his presence is far outweighed by their general annoyance at professors, as well as their lack of knowledge of the Second Wizarding War. He prefers the snide comments and the eye-rolling. Prefers being known as the teacher who would assign something difficult on the first day of the year rather than as Harry Potter, the Professor My Parents Talk About Over Pudding. 

Tea, he thinks. Tea would be the proper way to spend his free period. It’s an easy task, flicking his wand toward the kettle until it screams, pouring water into the teacup until the leaves leech their colour into their steaming surroundings. The teachers’ lounge is empty and he counts himself lucky as he stirs milk and sugar into the murky cup, pondering over a seemingly homemade scone as the door opens behind him.

“D’you know who made these?” His tone is conversational, aimed at whatever presence has interrupted his sullen introspection. “I’ll probably eat it anyway, so just tell the truth—“  
He turns, and his mouth snaps shut. A hand moves instinctively to his wand, despite the fact that they are no longer teenagers, no longer on opposite sides of a war neither of them should have been fighting. A habit. Some ridiculous impulse he needs to suppress. 

“Potter.” That cool voice is as infuriating as it had ever been, though now it is imbued with true calm where in younger years it had been filled with some desire to be noticed, to be seen, if even by its enemy. “Don’t let me interrupt whatever conversation you’re having with yourself.” 

He sinks into one of the plush armchairs as Harry turns to busy himself with the tea, reluctantly pouring one for Draco as well. His cane rests against the cupboard and Harry eyes it with reproach, as though its existence is some personal offence. Eschewing it, he does his best not to limp as he walks to the chair opposite Draco’s, depositing the tea before him with a perfunctory clatter. There’s a moment of awkward silence wherein Harry stares at the table and Draco looks at the wall.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Harry finally says, trying not to stare at the livid scars which look so garish against the pale skin, pale eyes. Draco finally looks at him and it’s hard not to look away from the cool, considering gaze. He takes a sip of tea instead. Nonchalant. Easy.

“I surprise even the famously unflappable Harry Potter.” Draco summons the milk and sugar with a lazy wave of his wand, a fading echo of haughtiness stiff upon his brow. “It seems that life at the Ministry didn’t agree with either of us in the end.”

“What happened?” It comes out before Harry can stop it, the tumble of words which had always seemed to get him in trouble. There’s a flash of reproach in Draco’s light gaze — --finally, something other than the oddly formal composure he had been brandishing since arriving on the school grounds. Harry can feel his cheeks flush and he chokes down another sip of the still-too-hot tea. “I only meant… Well, you know what happened to me.”

“So you thought I’d confide in you?” Now he laughs, a sharp sound, mouth twisted into that smirk with which Harry is so familiar. “You were always a bit dull, Potter, but I thought you had to be at least a little clever to defeat the Dark Lord.”

“Right. Well.” Harry stands, stiff, holding his hand out until his cane smacks against his palm. He’s tried. He can say truthfully now that he’s tried to have a conversation with Draco, to put the past in the past, to act like adults. He can meet his eventual scolding from McGonagall with this very example of his attempt to reconcile with Malfoy. After depositing his teacup, he makes for the door, but turns before exiting.

“You’ll want to be out of here before one. That’s Trelawney’s free period.” 

***************************

Four students sit before him as the sun sinks below the horizon and the stars begin to fade into view. A breeze rustles the curtains through the open windows, makes the candle flames flicker and stutter. Harry regards the seventh-years with a passive expression, mouth set in a serene line, hands clasped in his lap. Finally one of them breaks — her hand wavers as she raises it and he can see equal parts excitement and apprehension in her bright eyes. 

“Sir,” she begins cautiously, after he nods in her direction. “What exactly are we doing here?” 

“The four of you have all expressed an interest in becoming Aurors.” The students break out in low murmurs; Harry waits patiently for them to finish before he continues, allowing himself a small smile at the heightened energy which crackles between the teenagers. “You’ve all done very well in my class over your time here and you’ve shown a lot of potential when it comes to innate magical ability. Over the last five years, I’ve chosen a small group of students to take part in a… sort of study group, if you will. But you have to promise me a few things.”

The secrecy, of course, isn’t entirely necessary. But it does make the students more interested. They lean in close, hanging on his every word, and Harry has to stop himself from laughing.

“You can’t tell anyone about this. Not your friends, your classmates, your teachers. It’s something we don’t teach at Hogwarts — something that not everyone can learn. I’m not even promising that the four of you will be successful.” They watch him with something approaching awe and he clears his throat awkwardly, shifting in his chair. “Wandless magic. I like to call it intuitive magic. It saved my life several times when I was with the Ministry.”

The students erupt with questions, so rapid-fire he can’t even attempt to answer them. After a few moments, he holds his hands up, laughing quietly until they settle down. He can remember his first group of students looking at him like he’d grown a new head. These students seem eager, thrilled, ecstatic, and it lights a fire in him, something familiar and nostalgic, an echo of Dumbledore’s Army ringing in his ears.

“We don’t have time tonight for a lesson. But we’ll meet every other Tuesday, here, after dinner.” He locks eyes with each of them individually. “Intuitive magic is extremely difficult and it will leave you exhausted. Make sure you pay attention in Potions — an Invigoration Draught will come in handy. Now. Go back to your common rooms. Don’t let Filch catch you; I won’t be covering for you.”

Conversation breaks out as the students leave, and Harry shakes his head fondly. Consulting the clock in the corner, he dons a coat and waves his wand, casting the classroom into darkness.

***************************

“They think I don’t know the policies on the mining of magical ores,” Hermione laments, her cheeks red and her fingers clutching a near-empty flagon of firewhisky. “Like I’m an idiot! How could I properly assist the Minister if I don’t know all the policies? Anyway, I told them they had to have their permits turned into the Minister’s office by next week, and they were certainly not happy with me.”

The Three Broomsticks is crowded and warm, the orange glow of enchanted lights casting a haze of comfort over the pub’s patrons. Merry conversation fills the wide room with a low hum; Madam Rosmerta passes drinks to the crowd with an unwavering smile on her face and tips a wink to Harry when they make eye contact. The smell of butterbeer and firewhisky stings their noses pleasantly and laughter erupts in the corner, loud and hearty, and Harry takes a moment to breathe, to remember that he no longer needs to be aware of every exit, every face. 

“To be fair,” Ron points out, even as Harry and Neville shake their heads. “I don’t think anyone other than you knows the, er, mining policies. They probably didn’t think it was important.”

“Not important?” Hermione’s voice reaches a fever pitch and Harry knows he has to intervene, to say something so that their row will not be heard by the entire population of Hogsmeade. 

“So, Hermione,” Harry says, and her gaze snaps to his as though she’s about to turn her rage onto him. “I spoke with Malfoy today.”

The wind leaves her sails and now she is sheepish, a cringe of a smile spreading wide across her lips. Ron sighs and mouths a relieved thank you in Harry’s direction. 

“D’you know what happened to him?” A flick of his wand beneath the table and the air shimmers with his unspoken Muffliato. “Half his face is covered in scars. Weird scars. I thought I could get him to tell me about them, but of course, he’s still the same prick he’s always been and basically told me to fuck off.”

“I don’t know specifics,” she hedges, brown eyes flicking away from his own for a moment. Not lying, exactly, but skirting the truth. “You know how the Unspeakables are, Harry. All I know is that there was an accident with a case he was working and the next thing we knew, he resigned.” It’s unspoken but obvious: Draco’s departure from the Ministry sounds exactly like Harry’s. 

He takes a long drink of his firewhisky.

“Oh, Harry. Forgot to tell you.” Ron’s speech comes hastily as Hermione shoots him a look, and his face is almost as red as his hair. “We’ve made a breakthrough in the Belfort case.”

***************************

There are nights he can’t sleep at all.

Nearly a month into the term and Harry finds himself tossing and turning, vision stained red whenever he closes his eyes. Pain lances from the base of his spine down his leg, into the tips of his toes, and no matter which way he lies, he can’t escape it. With a sigh, he stands, pulling a sweater over his head as he limps through the door.

The night air is cold. A gentle but biting wind chills his bare fingers. The pain brings a certain clarity; it rids him of the fog of fretful dreams and unwelcome memories. Pale moonlight cascades upon the castle grounds, bathing Hogwarts in an ethereal silver glow which never fails to astonish him. Starlight studs the velvet sky, illuminating the mist which descends over the inky surface of the lake. Nights like these on the empty grounds make Harry feel small, insignificant. Alone. It’s a nice feeling, to remember that in the grand scheme of the universe, he means almost nothing.

“And we’d been avoiding each other so well,” comes a dry voice from Harry’s left. He whirls, heart thumping in his throat, to see Malfoy leaning against the stone wall of the castle. Long and lean and pale, he blends in with the frigid night, like one of the ghosts has ventured out for a stroll. “Shame we had to break our stride.”

“Yeah. Shame.” Inelegant as always, Harry eyes Draco with guarded interest, wondering what demons have chased him out of his bed. For a moment they stand in silence, regarding the moonlit grounds before them. A thousand questions boil their way up Harry’s throat but he swallows them down, unwilling to be the first to break this tenuously cordial moment.

“It was… an object.” Draco’s voice is halting, uncertain, none of his customary arrogance to be found. Harry draws in a breath. “Similar to the one that took your leg. We were investigating and I grew--too comfortable. I looked away for a moment.” His fists clench at his sides, knuckles tense and white beneath ivory skin. Harry finds himself mirroring the pose, his hand going numb as it grips the wooden handle of his cane. 

“I had to leave.” Quieter, now, Malfoy seems to be talking more to the empty air than to Harry. “After I left St. Mungo’s, I couldn’t go back to the Ministry. They weren’t going to push me out or ask me to leave. I could still do my job. But I couldn’t go back. So I came here. Practically begged McGonagall for a job, embarrassingly enough, and luckily Flitwick had just sent notice of his illness. And here I am.”

Tension snaps between them, almost tangible, a thread of common ground as fragile and taut as a bowstring. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, loud as the wind dies and the air grows still. Draco’s gaze flickers, unreadable, and he turns away toward the door. 

“Save your apologies.” And with that he is gone, fading into the darkness of the castle. 

***************************

“I keep beggin’ Charlie ter let me visit Norberta,” Hagrid booms, sloshing ale on the table as he passes a large mug to Harry. “He won’ commit to a day, but he says I can come see ‘er!” He beams behind the bushy beard, large teeth crunching into a stale cauldron cake. 

“Well that’s — that’s, er, great, Hagrid,” Harry says doubtfully, sipping the ale whilst trying to keep it from spilling down his shirt. Charlie had ruefully told him of the half-giant’s many attempts to come see the dragons despite the many excuses Charlie had come up with to keep Hagrid away from any of the fire-breathing reptiles. They had all agreed it would probably be in everyone’s best interests for Hagrid to stay as far away from Romania as possible.

“So ‘Arry,” Hagrid hedges, not able to meet Harry’s gaze. “Wha’ d’you think of tha’ Malfoy bloke teachin’ here? I reckon it were quite a shock to yeh!” 

“Hagrid,” says Harry, politely pushing away the mug of ale. “I do not want to talk about Draco Malfoy. I really should get back to the castle. I’ll see you soon.”  
As he walks away, shaking his head, he can hear Hagrid’s chortling laughter echo behind him.

***************************

The courtyard bustles with activity; students lie in the sun with books spread before them, quills scratching on parchment and leaves fluttering under a volley of levitation charms. There’s laughter and shouting and Harry smiles as he leans against the corridor wall, watching a couple of first-years attempting a game of wizard’s chess. 

“What’re you going to do about it?” A cruel voice cuts through the general gaiety, sharp and mean, and Harry searches the crowd for its source. “You’re a disgusting excuse for a wizard. Nothing but a — a Mudblood.”

Harry moves toward the student, but before he can even summon an indignant shout, a spell whistles past his ear and collides with the chest of the fourth-year who uttered the insult. The boy is flung back and held against the wall, his eyes wide with terror as the black-clad attacker descends upon him like a wraith. 

“Don’t,” Draco begins, his voice level but threatening. He is quiet but his tone snaps with lightning-hot barbs of certainty, of anger. “Don’t ever say that word. Detention. My classroom. Starting today.”

He drops his wand arm and, by extension, the student, who looks dumbfounded. Serene, placid, Draco glides past Harry, ignoring the shocked expression which hangs limply below unruly black hair. Harry watches him go and feels deflated. His own rage seems to have nowhere to go, so he turns to the slack-jawed student and narrows his eyes.

“And twenty points from Ravenclaw!”


	4. conversation, or talking without thinking.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which harry and draco may or may not go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter! I hope that's a sufficient holiday gift for my long absence. Once again, all the thanks in the world to Brandon and Andrea, the best betas ever. Please be gentle with me.

Snow dusts the tops of the trees. Flurries gust flakes of snow into the students’ hair and they laugh, sending packed balls of ice flying toward each other near the frozen lake. Harry smiles as he watches them, his breath fogging the window, tea forgotten in his hand. Shrieks and curses batter against the glass. It’s early for snow, but no one seems to mind the chill, the ice, the crisp morning air that takes their breath away. He finds himself wondering what the giant squid does during the freeze. Does he hibernate below the glassy surface of ice? Does his magic keep him alive despite the frigid temperatures?

“Waxing nostalgic?” The voice is low, amused, and it makes Harry’s teacup fall from his hand. Only an instinctual throb of magic saves it from shattering into a thousand pieces, meeting a steaming death against the cold stone floor. Draco’s eyes narrow as he realises that Harry’s wand is not in his hand, but he says nothing of it. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, Potter.”

“Save your apologies,” Harry quotes wryly, which grants him a small smile twitching across Draco’s mouth. They watch the students for a moment, and Harry wonders if Draco is thinking of his first years at Hogwarts, the moments of gaiety where even his bullying was juvenile, worth nothing more than hurt feelings and harsh words. Or is he thinking, perhaps, of a winter spent indoors, sobbing in a room filled with rubbish, wondering what will become of his family? 

“Ask me.” Draco’s voice is a whisper, now, a ghost of its usual authority and disdain. “Go on.”

“Why’d you do it?” Harry takes a long drink of his tea. Something to hide behind, to cover his frowning mouth which asks the questions he can feel burning in his throat. “Why’d you punish that Ravenclaw?”

Draco seems taken aback by the question—as though he’d been expecting another, something more difficult, more vague. 

“That kind of thinking ruined my family.” It’s a simple phrase but it takes Harry’s breath away, makes him turn toward the man he’d spent so many years trying to avoid. From this angle Draco is like a statue: perfect, sharp, features chiseled from marble by the steady hands of a master. From this angle there is no hint of the wounds which dance angrily across the other half of his face. “I don’t… I don’t want any of them thinking it’s right. I don’t want any of them to fall into the same trap I did.”

There’s something deep in Draco’s voice, something Harry can’t quite pick out—something he’s not quite sure he wants to know. 

“This Friday.” It’s out before he can stop it, a rush of syllables he’s not even sure he came up with on his own. Draco looks at him quizzically. “Hogsmeade, I mean. I—I go on Fridays to the Three Broomsticks. Normally I go with Ron and Hermione, sometimes Neville, but they’re not coming this week, so—”

“Yes,” Draco interrupts, bemused, as though even he is unsure whether he accepted because he wants to go or simply to shut Harry up. Either way, Harry is grateful for the chance to stop talking, and he vanishes the teacup in some attempt to do something with his hands.

“Good. Well. I’ll—see you then.” 

***************************

“Professor?” A cautious voice draws his attention away from the stacks of parchment on his desk. He knows the voice, but it carries an unusual air of uncertainty now, a lack of confidence, a vulnerability that makes him pause. Looking up, Harry gives the girl a reassuring smile, hands pausing in their shuffling and organising. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Of course, Miss Baker.” He gestures toward the empty seat across from him and she takes it, fidgeting nervously as she does, unable to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. Harry waits patiently, his hands folded in his lap, eyes steady as he watches her face.

“I can’t do it.” Finally she speaks, dark gaze settling on his own. “I’ve tried and tried but I can’t make it happen. I sit in my bed and I try to make my books levitate, or I try to Summon things without my wand, and I just can’t do it. It’s infuriating!” 

Harry fights the smile that flickers on his lips, remembering how frustrated he’d gotten, sitting in the dark and willing reality to bend to his whims. He’s not yet told them the physical toll that intuitive magic can take; he’s not yet explained that wrapping your willpower around something and forcing it to do your bidding is more than just flicking a wand and muttering a spell. He wants them to remember. Remember the days when they were children, before Hogwarts, when their magic ebbed and flowed and pulsated like a living thing. 

“No one in your group has managed it yet,” he offers vaguely, plucking a Sneakoscope from the desk and turning it in his fingers. “It’s an extremely difficult form of magic. It’s fickle—more of an idea, an intention, than a defined spell. Think of it like your mind trying to solve a problem. You can’t try to force it to solve it the way you want it to be solved; you have to let the magic do it on its own.”

He holds out a hand and she looks at it with confusion. After a moment, she places her wand in his palm, hesitant, unsure. Harry studies it. Rolls it between his fingers. Smiles, just a little, wondering what bit of magic had flowed from her in that dim and cluttered shop.

“Really, professor,” the girl presses, and she reminds him fiercely of Hermione despite their lack of physical similarities. Eagerness bubbles out of her like champagne, seems to radiate from her close-cropped hair down to her tapping foot. “There must be a book I can study, some sort of literature—”

With a blur of motion, Harry whips the Sneakoscope at her, sharp eyes watching her face as she first realises what’s happening and then reacts. Her pupils dilate, nostrils flare, and with an audible pop, the Sneakoscope disappears, reappearing a moment later with a quiet rattle atop Harry’s desk. He laughs loudly, leaning back in the chair with an impressed grin wide across his mouth.

“What the hell?” she manages after a stunned moment of silence. Too shocked to be polite, she gives him an angry glare, shaking her hand as though it’s burning her. “That could have hit me right in the face!”

“Could have,” Harry replies without the grace to act sheepish. “But it didn’t. You didn’t let it.”

“I didn’t let it,” she echoes, looking at her hand with awe before turning her gaze to the Sneakoscope, now lying still and nonviolent on the wooden desk between them. When her eyes finally flick back to look at his, a smile breaks like sunlight across her face, and she giggles with an abandon he hasn’t heard from her before. “I didn’t let it! I did it! Why does my hand hurt?”

Harry hands her back her wand, almost jealous of her unbridled joy, her elation at learning something new. 

“Your wand is a conduit for your magic.” He points at the length of willow she’s clutching in her hand. “Without that conduit, the magic has to flow from you. It didn’t hurt when we were young; back then, we were an excess of magic just waiting to burst out. But when you use it consciously—it takes its toll. Your hand will feel fine within the hour. Intuitive magic isn’t for more intricate spellwork; the more magic you do, the more damage you do too. I will say—your intuition is rather creative. Most simply go for the redirect. You completely removed the Sneakoscope from its trajectory and made it appear elsewhere. I’m—very impressed.”

She beams at him, as though he couldn’t have offered her any higher praise. 

“Now, Miss Baker. Please get out of my office.” Her face falls for a moment before she sneaks a glance at the clock and manages a look of chagrin even under the weight of her smile. “I would like to get some sleep before tomorrow.”

She scurries from the office with a tumbling mess of appreciative words, and Harry knows that she will practice against his advice, more and more advanced spells until she winds up in the hospital wing.

Harry had done the same. He smiles, waves his wand, and plunges the room into darkness.

***************************

Burgeoning sunlight glints on the dew speckling the grass. Candy-floss clouds glow pink and orange as they meander across the sky, casting their scattered shadows upon the black, skeletal creatures which seek the shade, the darkness. Leathery wings flap irritably as the sun begins its ascent; curved beaks like scythes open to let loose quiet, plaintive cries as the beasts turn their heads toward an intruder.

“Morning,” Harry says, soft and gentle. The mood changes quickly; thestrals swarm him with coos of excitement, battering him in their attempt to get to the meat they can smell in the bag dangling at his side. A foal nips at his hand and he laughs, reminded painfully of Hedwig, of the way she used to peck at his hands when he held food near without surrendering it. He scatters the meat about, trying his best to be fair with its distribution, and he smiles sadly as he watches them pick at the garish red scraps. Tentative, he holds a piece out for the foal, watches as she sniffs and then gingerly removes the meat from his hand. 

“They like you,” comes a crystalline voice, a lilting and silvery thing that seems to come from the mist itself, and Harry smiles even wider. The thestrals do not scatter as they would for any other newcomer; they simply continue eating, content as they swish their black tails. Harry turns, unsurprised to see the pale figure ensconced in a blonde halo, her cherubic smile serene and unaffected by the past which had so disfigured her peers. 

“Luna,” he says fondly, wiping his hands on his trousers before meeting her for a long embrace. Lavender, honey, smoke, elderflower; she smells familiar and floral, like something he remembers from a dream. As they pull back she smiles widely at him, radishes dangling from her ears and a sun charm held tight to her throat. He holds her at arms’ length for a moment before dropping his hands, steadying himself on his cane. “Ginny send you to check on me?”

“Yes,” she says, her breathy voice catching on the wind as though it’s made from the breeze itself. “She told me not to tell you that, but you guessed it all on your own. That doesn’t count as telling, I suppose.”

“I think you’re in the clear.” Amusement colours his voice, easy smile still lingering around his mouth. She smiles back, seeming to glow in the early morning light, her fingers working up to twitch a lock of his hair between them. 

“Wrackspurts,” she says delicately, taking a step back from him to observe their beastly companions. They’ve eaten most of Harry’s offerings, moving now toward the pair, to inspect their pockets and bags for any further whiff of food. Unimpressed by their findings, the thestrals disperse, wandering through the field as the sun casts its light upon their inky skin. “I’ve always thought it. They’re why your hair stays so messy.”

“You’re one to talk,” Harry says with a laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the unruly plait which seems almost ready to burst from its confines at any moment. Luna laughs, a chiming of bells that rings in Harry’s spine, makes him feel at ease like almost nothing else can.

“You’re getting better,” she observes, tilting her head to one side. For a moment Harry thinks to ask what she means, but they both know better than to assume he’s that thick. Instead he merely squares his shoulders under her intense stare, waits for her to enunciate some truth about himself that even he isn’t sure of. But instead she turns to look once again at the thestrals, her hands clasped in front of her, as though nothing in the world could interrupt her musing.

“What?” Harry doesn’t mean for it to come out as harshly as it does; Luna’s sideways glance at him holds no reproach, despite a raised, pale brow. 

“You’ve met someone.” Her tone brooks no argument. But Harry argues anyway.

“I—what?” He echoes himself, but this time it is incredulous, as though Luna has begun crowing like a rooster, as though she’s suddenly provided him with proof of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack’s existence. He feels as though perhaps he should be offended, though he isn’t sure why, and he folds his arms over his chest as though afraid she might be looking directly into him. “I’d think you’d know as well as anyone I’m done—meeting anyone. For the time being.”

“Of course,” she says airily, which infuriates him all the more. Her tone is rational, and if it had been anyone but Luna speaking, he would say that tone sounds patronising. “I’m mistaken, Harry. It happens from time to time.”

He laughs, appreciating her attempt at humour, appreciating the way she never hurts him, never lets herself take on that pitying tone which so many affect whilst speaking with him. She, in turn, grins brightly at him, her pale face radiant in the light of the dawn.

“I should go,” she says, her voice a dreamlike trance, a siren’s call if he’s ever heard one. The girl who’d been known as Loony Lovegood. “I want to see Ginny before I set off with Rolf again. I’ll see you soon, Harry.” 

He has no doubt that that is true. Waving a hand in goodbye, he watches as Luna disappears into the mist of the morning, her lilac dress an echo of the dawn’s light which has finally faded into daybreak.

***************************

Harry is flush with firewhisky and anticipation.

Enchanted lights hang above him, sparkling and colourful, celebratory of the upcoming holiday without being garish. The red and green only add to the alcoholic fervour which has set Harry’s nerves alight; he can feel how sallow his face must look, its usual russet glow offset by the anxiety pooling in his gut. Somewhere deep in his mind he knows he should stop drinking lest he make a fool of himself. He counts to ten, drums his fingers on the tabletop, decides he will give Malfoy one more minute before he returns to the castle.

“Started without me, I see,” that voice says, steady and amused as always. Malfoy slides into the seat across from Harry with an uncanny grace, a blond brow raised as he motions for Madam Rosmerta to bring him a flagon. Harry is silent, waiting for the inevitable flirting, the way Rosmerta makes eyes at Draco as she fills his waiting cup.  
Malfoy takes a long drink of the burning liquor, misty eyes never leaving Harry’s.

“Thought you weren’t coming.” It’s an honest answer, unexpected, and Harry coughs as he pours for himself out of the pitcher Rosmerta left them. He waits until Malfoy has started to drink before he takes another drink himself, a bit of warmth to steady his shaking hands. That grey stare is too much for him to take. He’d rather focus on the mahogany tabletop, the stained wood floor, the flickering candlelight which casts uneasy shadows across the pub, the thrum of magic in the veins of those gathered inside the Three Broomsticks. 

“I got held up at the school,” Malfoy says, his voice calm, smooth as ever. Harry finds it rage-inducing. Wishes he could conjure that same peace no matter the circumstances. But instead he can remember shouting, screaming, anger, a red-hot ember in his chest that burns and glows and threatens and seethes. He stokes it with another drink of firewhisky. “I didn’t mean to be late.”

“Not a problem.” Harry is surprised by how level his voice is despite the growing heat in his chest, the tenuous thread of sanity he’s been clinging to growing ever thinner. It’s as though Malfoy can sense it—the electric snap of tense shoulders and clenched jaw. He takes a long drink. Swallows.

“Why did you come?” The question is phrased awkwardly and Harry is unsure how to answer; he’d invited Malfoy here, surely that had been painfully obvious? The blond shakes his head, as though he can read Harry’s obtuse mind, as though he’s anticipated Harry’s stupidity. “Mother’s funeral. I saw you. In the back. Staring.”

The wash of various conversations drowns Harry, momentarily, absorbs him into the ebb and flow until he feels as though he might drift peacefully downstream, away from the questions, the expectations, the pensive look on Draco’s porcelain face. Gossamer thread comes the past, weaving around them until they are immobile, staring into each others’ faces with an identical sense of entitlement, of yearning. Fear of the past and fear of the present. Circling each other as though they are birds of prey fighting over the same morsel. 

“I dunno.” Harry’s response is dull, anticlimactic, a vague response to a very pointed question. He clears his throat, takes a long and fortifying drink of whatever lies in front of him, sweating in its container. “She saved my life. In a way, she saved all our lives. She lied to Voldemort. Told him straight to his face that I was dead even though she knew I wasn’t. I felt—I felt like I needed to be there.”

It’s not a good finish. It’s a surprisingly weak one, leaving Harry feeling as though he’s lost track of his story, lost the upper hand amongst a crowd of liars and thieves and people who don’t deserve his judgment, but who get it anyway, because he’s not the reverent whispers they speak behind their hands, he’s a blunt instrument just like he’s always been, someone raised and kept alive for one thing and unsure of what to do with himself now that that thing has come to pass. When he finally manages to meet Draco’s eyes, they’re unexpectedly soft. Not angry. Not accusatory like Harry expects them to be. He’s never seen any softness in Draco, only anger, and pride, and fear. 

“Oh,” Draco responds, his choice of words just as lackluster as Harry’s. A pale hand moves to yank the tie from his long hair, rake his fingers through the almost-silver strands which glimmer under the flicking candle flames. He looks almost alien. Translucent. Fragile. “Well. I’m sure she would have been… flattered.” 

There’s a stretch of silence and Harry fidgets, awkward, in his seat, thankful for the moment when Rosmerta brings them ale, seemingly unbidden. 

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Harry lies, hiding his face behind the ale as he takes a drink. That was a funeral he hadn’t attended; Lucius Malfoy had never been a man Harry could see himself absolving of his sins. Draco barks a harsh laugh, taking a drink himself, some dark humour Harry doesn’t understand settling, heavy, on his brow.

“Guess we’re both orphans now.” The hard veneer of his expression cracks as Harry’s gaze falls. “Sorry. That was cruel.”

“It’s true, though,” Harry replies, quiet, perhaps too quiet for Draco to hear. “At least I was young when it happened to me. You—you had a whole life with your parents. I barely remember—”

“Don’t do that.” Draco somehow sounds amused and irritated at the same time, lips curled in something that might be a smile. “You don’t have to be a hero all the time, Potter.”  
Harry blinks. 

“So. What happened with you and the Weasley girl?” It’s a hasty attempt to change the subject and Harry appreciates it, appreciates that he doesn’t have to form a reply to Draco’s sudden outburst of kindness. 

“I assume the same thing that happened with you and Pansy,” Harry says dryly, coughing as he takes another drink of the ale. “We realised that sometimes feelings don’t last after school. We’re still friends. Close friends. It’s better that way.”

Draco considers him over the cup he’s raised to his lips. Smiles again before drinking, something unreadable on his face.

“Yeah. Similar.” Harry’s head spins in the silence which settles over them like a fine mist. He knows he should stop drinking but he drinks anyway, his fingers trembling against the sweating flagon of ale. Mirroring him, Draco drinks even longer, as if to steady his shoulders which are already unwavering, always more stable than Harry can hope to be. Harry finds himself wondering what’s happened since the war to lend him this calm, this unflappable ease that is so at odds with the grandiose, pureblood pride which had possessed him at Hogwarts.

“You saved me, too.” The words are out before Harry can process what he’s saying, before he can swallow the sentence. He can feel his skin flush, russet growing darker under the candlelight which refuses to dim. Now the words come pouring out, the alcohol lubricating his tongue, words spilling over and burning like bile. “When—when it happened. You could’ve gone to investigate the object. Let Dippet see to me. But you didn’t. You tried, I remember, tried to fix…”

“Dippet couldn’t fix a leaking cauldron.” His voice is harsh and his hand flexes around the flagon, a pale fist as tense as the pale jaw which works above it. “I don’t know much about the curses on these objects. But I knew enough. Enough to stop the bleeding… To stop—well. To get you to St. Mungo’s. Besides, Dippet was too busy shouting to help.”

Harry feels himself flush again.

“Well, I never got to thank you,” he says lamely, knowing a simple thanks is nothing to repay Draco for what he’d done. “I wrote about a hundred letters. But I could never bring myself to send them.”

“You’re welcome.” A pause. “It was nothing, really. My job.”

“You don’t have to downplay what you’ve done,” Harry says, an echo of Malfoy’s earlier assertion. His voice is still quiet. Unsure. “Your job was to secure the object. Not help me. But you did anyway.”

Draco says nothing. Harry looks at the clock.

“It’s getting late,” he all but whispers, shivering despite the charmed warmth of the pub. “We should probably go back. Lessons to prepare, right?”

“Yeah.” Neither of them move, at first. They look at each other over the tabletop, mouths set with untold stories and frozen secrets. 

When they do move, it’s in tandem, jackets tucked over arms and coins flipped to a still-smiling Rosmerta, who gives them each a cheeky wink before swaying to pour more drinks across the bar.

The streets of Hogsmeade are quiet but not empty. People walk, huddled in their coats, hushed conversations interspersed with gusts of shrieking wind and the occasional drunken giggle. Harry and Draco walk silently, Harry slightly swaying with the breeze as he pulls his scarf around his face. The cobblestones are rough and uneven beneath his feet and he has to think about each step, each movement, in order to not stumble. Not next to Draco, who seems to place each step with easy grace, some feline elegance imbuing him with a natural surefootedness that Harry can only envy.

Pinprick stars glow in the black sky. The moon shines, round and heavy, illuminating their path with pale light that makes Draco shine silver and casts Harry into shadow. He laughs at the thought, granting him a confused look from his companion, which he duly ignores, simply continuing to focus on his steps, the uneven ground they traverse.  
When they arrive at the castle it is dark. The corridors echo with their footsteps. Harry assumes that they will part ways now, go to their own quarters without another word, both left to chew on their conversation until sleep finally claims them. But Draco keeps pace with Harry, accompanying him, some unspoken agreement keeping Harry silent as they both walk toward his room. He feels stalked. Like a mouse cornered by a snake. Skittering toward its imminent doom. 

When they land at his door Harry turns, his head tilting to look up at Draco, astonished for a moment by the fact that he appears to be staring directly at a pulse throbbing gently beneath Malfoy’s hollow throat. When their eyes meet Harry can feel his breath catch in his throat. Their faces are closer than he’d thought them to be; Draco’s warm breath washes over him and he can smell jasmine, bergamot, cinnamon, ale, and he starts to lean forward but catches himself, weight resting on his toes. They exist in this silence. This pause pregnant with their unsaid words and a strange electricity that seems to snap and burn and pull them together. It feels as though Draco’s lips are a mere millimeter away, an easy enough distance to cross, could Harry be so daring, so bold. But he feels frozen. Held in place by something that is not fear, but hovers beside it, somewhere in the limbo between bravery and cowardice.

“Good night,” Malfoy whispers, taking a step back, leaving Harry blinking in his wake. 

“Yeah,” Harry replies, watching him fade into the darkness. “Night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry!!!! Don't hate me.


End file.
